Authority's End
by Zephdae
Summary: Two years after the conclusion of The Amber Spyglass, Will must use the knife to defeat a group of renegade angels trying to carry out Metatron's plans for a permanent Inquisition in every world. *SUMMARY POSTED*
1. Chapter 1: Southampton

AN: Maybe this isn't a good idea, but I'm going to do it anyway. There _should_ be a sequel to HDM. And if Mr. Pullman isn't going to write it, well then, who's left but little old me? Of course, I can't promise regular updates; I haven't even gotten the story entirely worked out yet. But in the next three or four chapters I know pretty much what's going on, so those shouldn't take terribly long to get written.

This first chapter is only a slightly modified version of my "Knife" fic, except it's not a stand-alone anymore. It's a longish chapter, but the next one's shorter, so deal with it. The format is going to be sort of _American Gods_-y, with random interlude chapters not directly related to the plot. Also quotes at the beginning of each chapter. When I realized that two quotes I really like were perfect for the first two chapters, I was happy for a very long time. Such a nerd.

I would greatly, greatly appreciate any and all reviews. Tell me what I'm doing right. Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Tell me what you'd like to see. If you're really lucky, I might even listen.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to the wonderful genius talented brilliant Mr. Pullman. Except for Ethan, but he won't be appearing until chapter three at least. All plot points carried over from HDM also belong to Mr. Pullman. I even stole the writing style from him. Or at least, I tried to.

* * *

_Footfalls echo in the memory  
Down the passage which we did not take  
Towards the door we never opened  
Into the rose-garden.  
_–T. S. Eliot

John Burns sat behind the counter of the metalworks shop on East Street. The small room was, as usual, empty of patrons; not because it was an unsuccessful business, but because most of the orders were placed specially and sightseers in Southampton were not often interested. But the occasional customer did appear, and so the cash register was kept manned.

A shimmery-sounding bell rang as the door swung open and a boy stepped in. He seemed tense and nervous as he glanced around at the metal figurines, sculptures, and carvings on display, and he hesitated before entering fully. The boy examined several objects near him, and watching him John had the feeling that their craftsmanship was being judged. The boy was of average height, sturdy, dark-haired, about fourteen.

"Were you looking for anything in particular?" asked John.

"No," said the boy awkwardly, looking up. He paused. "Are you one of the Burns'? A—a smith?"

"Yes. John Burns. We call ourselves metalworkers, 'smith' is a bit old-fashioned."

The boy approached the counter and spoke hastily. "My name's Will Parry. I have something that I wondered if you could fix." He pulled up the bottom of his shirt and unbuckled a heavy leather sheath from his belt. John started in surprise as the boy, Will, very carefully poured several dull silvery shards and a wood-and-metal hilt onto the countertop.

"Knife…" murmured John to himself, and he leaned forward to finger the pieces.

"Be careful," said Will quickly, and then added, more reserved: "They're sharp."

John pushed the pieces around carefully into their knife shape. He began speaking softly, scrutinizing the metal. "It's very strange…the edges…but what is this?" He looked up at Will and asked, indicating the subtle silver edge, "What sort of metal is this? I've never seen it before."

"Some kind of alloy I think," said Will.

The man nodded and peered at it again. "Yes, that could be…titanium, I think, and something else…strange design on the hilt…" His fingers traced the yellow wiring. "Is it gold? Yes, remarkable…and burned… This knife has been broken before?"

"Yes," said Will.

"And it was mended then?"

"Yes."

"Very well," said John, straightening. "We should be able to fix it, if it has been done before. But I must warn you, the more times it is re-melded the weaker it will be. You see it has broken again on the same lines as before." His forefinger traced the silver rivers marking the places where the knife had been rejoined the first time. "But I don't understand…how did it break? Knives don't break like this, all these pieces…"

"It broke," said Will evenly.

John raised his eyebrows and studied Will more closely. The boy's jaw jutted resolutely; his dark eyes stared out from beneath very straight, very black brows. He looked fierce and old and strong, and there hung about him an air of savage wistfulness. John was curious now. Who was this boy, who looked so much older than anyone of his age had a right to? Who was this boy, who crackled so with knowledge and power and mystery?

Suddenly the man blinked, and stared again. Strange. How had he thought the boy powerful? This boy was ordinary, commonplace. John dismissed him immediately and cared only about the knife, and how to mend it.

"Well," he said, business-like, "we shall fix it if it can be done. We're at a busy time and you shan't be able to pick it up for three weeks at least. And it won't be cheap. You can pay, I suppose?" He looked sternly at the boy, this child taking up his time.

"You have to fix it now," Will said. "I'm leaving town later today, and I can't come back. And I—I'd like to be there when you do it. I can pay whatever you like."

The man frowned, but his spark of interest flared down almost as soon as it was kindled. "Well," he said again, doubtfully, "we _could_, I suppose, at highest priority. At significant extra cost, to bypass the order queue, but… Hold on a moment." He stepped through a door behind the counter, and Will could just see him picking up a phone, dialing, and speaking quietly to someone on the other end for a few moments before returning. "Can you come back at three? I can drive you up to the forge, and the process shouldn't take long."

Will nodded. "I'm taking the knife with me now," he said, sliding the pieces carefully back into the sheath, "and I'll bring it back then."

He left the shop, and the shimmering bells followed him out.

Will hadn't known how tense he was until he was halfway down the street, and his shoulders sagged down from where he had held them several centimeters higher than normal. He had no reason to be so anxious, really, how could anyone tell that the knife was anything but what it seemed? But still, in over two years he had shown it to no one, and he didn't even _know_ John Burns, or his family…

It doesn't matter, he told himself, I'm not hiding from anyone anymore. I don't have anything to be afraid of, not from this, not from fixing the knife.

He shuddered involuntarily. When the knife was fixed, if it could indeed be fixed, what then? He was spending most of a two years' savings on that, and still he tread carefully around the edges of _afterwards_, sniffing and prodding at it like a hyena not quite sure that its prey was dead. It was a foolish thing to do, repairing the knife, and quite possibly dangerous; and he didn't want to think about what it would mean. Or the consequences. He especially didn't want to think about those.

"But it's what you wanted to do all along," said Kirjava abruptly from the pavement, looking up at him with disconcertingly wide eyes. "Even from when you picked up the pieces at the Garden, you were thinking about it…you knew it could be done."

"I didn't know it," he said. "Maybe Iorek was the only one who could do it, and there aren't any armored bears here."

"But you wondered. It's like the angel said. She said if you thought any windows between the worlds were left, you'd spend your life looking. Now you wonder if the knife can be fixed, and you'll spend your whole life trying. We should have thrown it away long ago."

"I know," he said quietly, and they both were silent.

Will returned at three anyway. There was an aspect of academic curiosity to him now: He had to know if it was possible to fix the knife. His stomach was twisted with nerves and his heartbeat thudded so strongly that he almost believed it was banging out of his chest like a cartoon character's. But John Burns was waiting for him just inside the door, and he took care to appear as dull and ordinary as possible. That trick still worked, anyway. He might not be hiding, but he didn't need any awkward questions.

"Ready, then?" said John Burns. "Got your knife? Good. My car's around back, it's about a twenty-minute drive out of town to our where we do the work—at our house actually. Got a little forge, an outbuilding sort of thing, like a garage. Do it all by hand—'individually crafted,' that's our thing, y'see? People want _real_ things, with a personality, like, not this mass-production, factories, everything the same." He was leading Will towards the rear of the shop, where a small back door led out into an alleyway connecting to the main road. "We've got all the machines and things, of course, furnaces and the like, can't be too archaic or the business'd fall apart…" He chattered on as they got in the car and began driving, and Will got the impression that this was a speech most customers heard.

"But we've never had anyone want to come and watch," John Burns went on. "Fond of the knife, are you?"

"Yes," said Will, and went on impulsively: "It was a present, from my father, before he died."

"Ah." And the man fell silent, as Will had known he would. People didn't like to be reminded of reality. It wasn't a bad thing. It was just how people were.

Kirjava stared at him accusingly from where she was crouched on the edge of his seat. _You're people too._

The Burns' home was large without having a mansion's foreboding air, but Will noticed little else about it as he left the car. His heart was beating strangely, in short pauses and rushes, and it was difficult for him to breathe properly. His hands were sweaty in the late summer air, he felt lightheaded, and everything seemed much brighter than usual. It reminded him vividly of being on the verge of fainting.

His dæmon butted her head against the back of his knees, and he understood: This is a stupid thing we're doing but we've got to finish it now, so keep together, concentrate, it will only work if you concentrate… And he knew she was right, and he steadied himself against the side of the car and looked down and remembered how to breathe.

"Are you all right?" asked John suddenly. He had come around the side of the car and stopped, staring at the boy with the suddenly drawn, pale face.

"Yes," said Will, pushing himself upright. He offered no further explanation. John dismissed the episode completely and said, "Our forge is over there, just beyond the house. Mark and Elijah—that's my brothers—they're here, they'll be the ones doing the work with me. Not that it should take three of us, or even two, I shouldn't think…"

Will nodded but said nothing, and they walked to the long, whitewashed building that looked more like a miniature barn than any sort of forge.

But a forge it certainly was, he saw as they walked inside and felt the dramatically warmer air. A memory struck him suddenly, a memory of thinking that only the best tools possible could fix the knife: These were the tools he would have pictured had he known what kinds of things to think of. The room was dominated by a large, squat furnace, roaring hot and with a door in its side. Clustered around were other pieces of equipment whose purposes he couldn't guess at but which all looked immensely impressive.

Two men, both wearing face masks and thick leather aprons and gloves, came towards them. Will couldn't see their faces clearly, but he knew they must be Mark and Elijah Burns. They nodded to him, introduced themselves, and handed John his own set of apron, gloves, and mask. Before putting them on, John turned to Will and said, "Can you get the knife out? We'll need to take another look at it before beginning. There's a place over there," he added, nodding towards the wall where a long, scarred wooden block rested at chest height. Will walked over and the three men followed.

For the second time that day, he found himself removing the sheath and carefully placing the knife shards on a counter for strangers to see. It felt very odd, and odder still when he found himself off to one side while the men examined the knife. It was almost enough to send him into a panic of nerves again, but Kirjava leaned against his legs and he wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever lived without a dæmon.

The men were conferring in low voices: "It's very strong." "We shall have to heat the furnace considerably more." "Yes, and a vacuum…" "What's this metal, here?" "An alloy…titanium I think, but it _is_ strange, isn't it?" "Titanium, yes, and, mmm…" "How did it break like this?" "_Where did it come from_?"

This was the question Will had been dreading. Could they have some way of telling it was from another world? They knew metals, and they didn't seem able to identify the second element in the alloy. But he was being ridiculous. The elements were the same here as in the Cittágazze world and Lyra's world, weren't they?

"It was a present," he said as they all turned to gaze at him for an answer. "From my father. I don't know where he got it from." He concentrated hard, harder than he ever had, on being so unremarkable that their minds simply passed over him. But further questions were deflected by an exclamation from John.

"Ah! It's manganese, I'm sure of it," he said, and Mark and Elijah left off looking at Will to return to the knife.

"I think you're right," said Elijah. "Manganese and titanium, what an unusual combination. But it seems to have gone well, doesn't it…"

Will suddenly felt sick and dizzy. He hadn't thought of this. There were so many things he hadn't thought of, and he was only now realizing that in avoiding thinking about the consequences of repairing the knife, he had unwittingly overlooked the consequences he wasn't already aware of. What if these men reproduced the titanium alloy, which had, so far as he knew, never been formed in his world? They could create things to sunder the fabric of the universe, create another subtle knife even. His world would become like Cittágazze, Specter-ridden, creating nothing, stealing everything. And Dust would leak out again, and he would have left Lyra for nothing.

"It doesn't really do anything," he put in carelessly, "that edge. It doesn't cut things, or anything. I think it was a sort of joke."

"Yes…" said Mark, "that's probably right. Their properties don't mesh, in any case, and I can't imagine how they were ever combined successfully. And then if they don't even do anything useful…it's just a waste of time and material." He shrugged, and John and Elijah nodded.

Will relaxed slightly, but he didn't put the incident out of his mind. He could feel Kirjava's reproachful look, and he knew he deserved it: This whole thing had been a mistake, and he would have to be far more careful and think about things no matter how he wanted to avoid them.

John, Mark, and Elijah had finished their examination of the knife and decided how best to go about its repair. John put on his apron and gloves, and said to Will, "You'll have to stand well back. It will be hot." He pulled the face mask on, gathered the knife pieces carefully, and conveyed them to the surface of a metal block near the furnace. Mark and Elijah were behind the furnace somewhere, and Will could feel the temperature of the room increasing. He licked his lips against the heat, and moved forward as close as he could manage. He could see the knife, and feel it within him, and that was what mattered.

And John, taking up a pair of tongs, put the first pieces through the door into the white-hot heat.

It had all started idly enough, the searching for someone to repair the knife. He had not meant to go anywhere with it. He had not meant, for example, to actually seek out the people. And yet he had. He had noticed, somewhere, an obscure mention of a family of professional metalcrafters, and he had found out more. They were not widely advertized; he had gotten the impression that they catered mostly to rich people in America. And there had come a day in mid August, before school began, when Mary was at a conference in London and had taken his mother with her. And he had gotten on a bus to Southampton. And he had come with the knife in its sheath at his belt.

Now he had done it all again, the joining of the pieces. And it had been hard, harder than before. But he had done it, and he held the knife. It was dull and only about six inches long, but he knew it was just the same. Tired though he was, every nerve in his body trembled with the feeling of holding it again, and the raised gold fit his grip perfectly.

John had driven him back to East Street from the forge, and now Will stammered out a thanks and left the car. Where? Where should he go now, to cut a window? He cast around him, but the street was full of people coming in and out of the shops. But there were parks here, extensive ones, and certainly he could find a secluded area…

"What about thinking things through?" said Kirjava softly.

"I've thought about it," he replied, his breathing ragged and reckless. "And I've decided. I decided a long time ago, I think."

Kirjava said nothing, and Will could feel her confliction. She wanted another window, of course she did, but…

Will ignored her and concentrated on walking, walking down the street and to the left, and down more streets until he came to the parks, the large, beautiful parks of Southampton. He couldn't remember how long it took him to get there. All he could remember was starting to walk, and then arriving instantaneously. Time was behaving strangely for him now, and before he could take in any of the park at all he was walking through it, and he arrived at a wide, slow-moving river at the edge of the city.

It was perfect, of course. There were no people, and the river was surrounded with trees to make a sort of green tunnel with sunlight illuminating the center of the water like it was a path to heaven. Will stood among the trees on the riverbank, in a small patch of green-gold grass, and a narrow trail led back the way he had come.

His heart was thudding painfully fast and hard, and his hand shook so violently he could barely keep hold of the knife. He breathed deeply to calm himself, and thought about Lyra. In her world he would come out something like forty miles from Oxford; he could only hope she was still living there. But he could find Jordan College, and at the very least someone there would know where she had gone.

He had left a note for his mother and Mary, saying only that he would be back. Even while writing the words he had felt uneasy, because he didn't know if they were true.

"When you find Lyra, what then?" asked Kirjava, knowing what he was thinking. "Will you stay there with her, ten years and then die?"

"I wouldn't have to stay," he whispered. "I could just see her and then come back."

Kirjava laughed softly. "Do you really think we could do that again? Leave when we had just found them?"

Will shook his head miserably. Of course they couldn't. "I could leave a window open, and come back through sometimes. The window for the dead, that's open, just one more window couldn't let too much Dust out."

Kirjava knew this wasn't true and knew also that he knew it himself, so she said nothing.

"Or I could…the angel said she was going to get rid of the Specters, and if I just kept making windows quickly whenever I needed to, it wouldn't matter, she could get rid of the Specters I'd create," he said desperately.

But Kirjava was shaking her head. "Do you think she'd clean up after you like that? She wouldn't. It was a bargain, remember, and if she knew you were using the knife she'd close the window from the world of the dead, and everyone would be stuck down there forever."

Will was grasping at straws now, and he said without thinking, "If dæmons can only live in their own world, _you_ could—" And he stopped.

She looked up at him sadly. "Would you leave me, Will? Would you have me stay here lonely forever while you lived happily with Lyra?"

He gasped at the thought and at the pain on her small, feline face. He knelt quickly on the grass and scooped her up in his left arm and held her close to his chest. "I couldn't be happy without you, not ever," he said, muffled, into her fur. And Kirjava knew it was true.

Without Lyra he wasn't unhappy, not exactly. In some ways he was the happiest he'd ever been. He had Mary, a good friend and someone to care for him; his mother was better, getting better, was nearly well; finally he could live and let someone else worry. But he knew there was something missing, and he knew what it was. It haunted him, lurked on the edges of his mind, made him cry in his sleep. He could lead a normal enough life, but there was a constant ache in the back of his heart that would never quite let him rest. Like a rock stuck in his shoe. It wasn't debilitating and it didn't impede his movement and occasionally he could forget it was there, but it was always nagging at him and rubbing raw places.

There were dozens of reasons not to cut another window, and there was only one to support it. But that reason meant more to him than all the rest combined.

He gently put Kirjava down and stood up. The knife was steady now in his hand; he extended it into the air and his mind ran swiftly down the handle and toward the tip of the blade, faster than he remembered. Almost immediately, he felt the stitch in the air that he recognized as Lyra's world.

It was almost as if the knife wanted to be used. And he remembered, reluctantly: _Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends…_

And he hesitated.

Memories flashed through his head so quickly he barely had time to recognize them: Lyra, offering him the red fruit in their gold-and-silver grove. Lyra, lying beside him on the beach. Kirjava, his newly discovered dæmon, telling him what the subtle knife did. Xaphania, commanding him to break the knife. Lyra, again, that final glimpse of her tear-stained face as he closed the last window.

It didn't have to be the last window. He had the knife, he was poised to use it, what was stopping him?

_Dust…the dead…Specters…_

_But Lyra. Lyra…_

Then suddenly, abruptly, everything came together. He wouldn't cut through. He would keep the knife. He would go back home and pretend he'd never left. He would have the knife and he could still use it if he decided that he should. And otherwise, he could break it again. And this time he would throw away the pieces.

He slid the knife into its sheath, picked up Kirjava, and strode from the riverbank.


	2. Cittagazze, ca 300 years previously

_All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone. Nothing is so intolerable to man as being fully at rest, without a passion, without business, without entertainment, without care.  
_–Blaise Pascal

Emil Benedetto was on the verge of a breakthrough. They all knew it. There was always a charged feeling in the air, a more purposeful intent in the stature of the researchers, the experimenters, the discoverers and innovators of the Torri degli Angeli. These moments of charged purpose had been coming more and more frequently, causing the men to move about in a constant state of anticipatory excitement, as if they knew there was something strange and wonderful just past the brink of their current understanding, and they were eager to get there. This, perhaps, was the great flaw of the Guild. They were never content to stay still, never satisfied with the extent of their knowledge, because for every question they answered there were hundreds more that remained. Indeed, some of the men seemed to take the existence of any unanswered question or unsolved mystery as a personal affront.

Emil Benedetto was not one of these men, but he was nevertheless plagued with the same curiosity, the same thirst for knowledge that infected the entire Guild. And yet, to Emil there was something beautiful about questions not yet solved (for that was how he thought of them, not as unanswered but merely as not yet solved). There was a proverb, it might have been Hellanese or it might have been from somewhere else, but Emil had heard it once and liked it: The usefulness of a bowl is in its emptiness, for only when it is empty can it be filled. None of the other Guild members had this philosophy, so it was Emil alone who did not rush ahead merely to see what the answer would be, Emil alone who realized that anticipation of the moment was a moment itself. He suspected that was another quote from someplace, but he didn't know where.

Emil knew he was close to a major discovery, but he worked the same way he had always worked: methodically, measuring the progress, taking notes. But sometimes he thought he was being more careful than usual, more hesitant in continuing with the experiment. Several times he had gone back, reperformed the steps to catch some imaginary error, and this worried him. He had a suspicion that he did not really understand what he was doing, and this was disconcerting for it had never happened before. He supposed he _must_ understand on some basic, instinctual level, or why else did his guesses and suppositions keep turning out correctly? But he could not explain how he knew what he should do next, although after the fact he could usually construct some logical path and pretend he had followed that rather than relied completely on instinct.

For the first time he was anxious about a project, not because he was worried that it wasn't going properly or that it wouldn't be appreciated by the rest of the Guild, but because it _was_ going just as it should, and he had no idea why. Of course, he did not ever admit this to himself, for he was also passionately curious about the outcome of the experiment and did not want to believe there could be something wrong with it. Emil was subject to the same flaw as the rest of the Guild after all, the only difference being that he was a bit more leisurely about it.

Emil's project had begun as a search for the sharpest blade in the world, something that would cut through anything presented to it. He had used iron for that, the purest iron he could find, tempered into the finest, keenest steel. That first part had been not so difficult, merely searching out the right type of heat and flame to make the steel as sharp as it could be. Once he had realized that the operation had to be done within a vacuum, so as not to weaken the blade, success had come easily. So he had his knife, but it was not enough.

Again, he did not know _why_ it was not enough. Had he not accomplished his purpose? His knife had cut anything he wished it to. So why did he not present his success to the rest of the Guild? This question nagged at Emil, and eventually he realized why it did: He was content to leave problems alone, at least temporarily, because he knew he could always find the answers if he wished. But with this knife, he did not know the reasons behind the things that he did, and he would not be able to find the answers no matter how hard he searched. But still, he pushed these concerns to the back of his mind and ignored them as best he could.

For a few weeks after his project had ostensibly reached its end, Emil would absently pick up the knife whenever he was not working on anything else, twirling it in his hands, gazing at it, examining it, always feeling, somehow, that it was not quite finished. There was something more he needed to do with it. And so he began to play, to experiment, to tinker with the knife during his free hours, and soon his free hours had surpassed his working hours, and the knife had become his primary project again.

He was working with alloys, alloys that had never been created because they were impossible, and even if they weren't they were useless anyway. But they were important. They were necessary, somehow, there was a secret buried in the deepest ties between them, something, something that he needed, that the knife needed…

The Guild members were all required to submit written summaries of their work each week, so that each member would know the progress the others were making. Emil's summaries were short and vague, because he did not know how to explain what he was doing or why he was doing it. They had engendered several visits from his colleagues, curious about Emil's mysterious project. But they had never inquired too deeply, because they saw the feverish look in his eyes and heard the way he spoke to them, not rudely or impatiently, but as if he was longing to return to his work and only wished they would leave as quickly as possible. They had all felt this way at one time or another, and so they left, and Emil returned to the knife.

That day he was working with a new alloy, a particularly strange one, but it seemed promising enough. The difficulty was finding some way to discover its properties. There were tests, of course, for all the common ones; but it was not those he was looking for.

The alloy was only a shapeless blob of metal. There was little he could do with that. So he would make it into a different shape, a more useful shape. The shape of a knife.

He began to heat the kiln, opening the vents to let the steaming gases into the chamber beneath it.

But he went no farther than that, because he was no longer alone.

"It is a dangerous path you walk," said the angel.

It stood in the center of the room, in the laboratory made of dark gray stone, and it glowed with its own reflected luminescence. It was clearly visible, and it was solid; Emil could not see through it to the stone workbench on its other side. It was a surprising thing, to see an angel, but it was not unheard of. The Guild had long known of the existence of angels, long had held them up as the supreme of all beings. But this, this appearing of an angel (and such a powerful angel!) to give what seemed to be a warning, had _this_ ever happened before? Emil did not know, or he had forgotten. He said nothing.

"It is a confusing thing, and we do not understand it, but it is dangerous," continued the angel. "The path is muddled, twisted, but you stand at the beginning. This knife that you are forging…it will have great power and it may be that it will be used for great good. But the consequences of its use will be such that even greater harm may come, if it is not used in the proper way. What we know about it, we cannot interpret, and we do not understand."

Emil trembled. This knife, his knife! "Tell me what you know," he said.

The angel's eyes half-closed and he chanted, as if reciting. "The knife may bring about the end of death or it may destroy all human life. It may kill people and angels, even up to God himself. It may bring about the triumph of the Kingdom of Heaven or the end of it. It will be called subtle one, Æsahættr, destroyer of divine life, and it will travel through many worlds in many times. It will be the downfall of your people, your city, and your world, but it may bring freedom to all."

Emil felt giddy, as if he were standing on a precipice and the drop was terrifyingly large, and part of him wanted to fall, wanted to leap into the exhilarating plunge. This knife! His knife! What a glorious creation, that it should have such a prophecy attached!

"I do not come to advise you against creating the knife, and I do not come to encourage you to complete it. Suffering lies down either path. If you continue as you are, with this alloy, and you affix it onto the blade you have already forged, then Æsahættr, the subtle one, it will be ready. Your own feet will be the first to tread its destiny."

He felt charged, electrified with power and knowledge. To think that he could set such things in motion…!

"I have warned you," the angel said, and it sounded half satisfied and half vaguely sad. It vanished, and Emil was left alone in the cold stone room, quivering in excitement.

Hardly hesitating, he raised the kiln to the highest heat possible and threw the alloy in. He formed it into the shape of a blade.


	3. Chapter 2: Regrouping

Disclaimer: I do not own His Dark Materials, nor do I own the words of Vergil, Pascal, and T.S. Eliot. Thank you.

* * *

_vertitur interea caelum et ruit Oceano nox  
__involvens umbra magna terramque polumque  
__Myrmidonumque dolos; fusi per moenia Teucri  
__conticuere; sopor fessos complectitur artus.  
__Meanwhile the sky is turned and night rushes from the ocean, wrapping in a great shadow the earth and the heavens and the treachery of the Greeks; spread out through the city the Trojans become silent; sleep enfolds tired limbs.  
_–Vergil

Elemi's brother was sick again. Their mother had sent Elemi out to collect the ingredients for the medicine she would make to bring the fever down. Elemi enjoyed this errand, because it was an escape from the usual tedium of working in the fields with the rest of his village, but his very joy made him feel guilty, because after all, it was God's will that he work in the the field. But then it was _also_ God's will that as many able-bodied shudras as possible were put to work; and so by missing a few days of work now and then he was ensuring that his brother would be capable of putting in a lifetime of labor.

Today, like every other day, he shoved all his other thoughts to one side and instead thought about how different the shade of the trees was from the implacable glare of the sunlight on the open fields where the rest of his family, the rest of his village, and, so far as he knew, the rest of his country was working that day. He appreciated the shade, and the greenery of his surroundings.

He didn't know how long he had been hearing the voices. They had become simply part of the background noise of the forest, but they were getting louder. Elemi stopped moving and listened. He felt curious and slightly uneasy; he had never met anyone in the forest before. Everyone worked in the fields. Except the harijan. Elemi shivered, but he cautiously edged forward toward the sounds, ready to turn around and run if he needed to.

He couldn't see where they were coming from yet, but as he drew closer he could hear that there were two voices and they seemed to be arguing, but he did not know what their words meant. Nevertheless he approached them, curious now to see who the speakers could possibly be.

The voices fell silent, because, he supposed, they had sensed his approach. After a moment, he heard some noises like hisses or whispers, but he could make nothing out. Then one voice, still some distance away, spoke to him at length in the words that Elemi did not understand. Elemi stood there, wavering and uncertain, until at last the voice began to speak normally.

"Who are you, boy?

Elemi hesitated, but the tone of voice was arrogant, so like a kshatriya, that he responded almost automatically. "Elemi. Of the village Yeshlan."

"And do you serve God?"

That was a strange question. Elemi wondered if they were harijan after all, and they would kill him if he answered truthfully. Well then, he would die as a martyr, defending God. "Yes. With all my heart," he said fervently.

"Good boy," said the voice approvingly. "What of your village, and the rest of the world? Do they serve God as faithfully as you?"

This was even stranger, but at least it did not seem that he would be killed. He was ashamed that he felt relieved at this. He should be _glad_ to die gloriously in the service of God. "I––yes, they do. All except the harijan." He spat the word distastefully.

There was an exclamation from the other voice, and the two conferred in low voices. Then he saw a flicker of something behind the trees, and two figures stepped out. Elemi's mouth fell open and he stood speechless, staring.

He had heard stories of creatures like these. Angels, with the naked glowing bodies and folded wings, tall and beautiful and elegant. Servants of God, they flew through the world doing His bidding, rewarding the righteous and punishing the wicked. What could they possibly be doing here, in the forest near his small village?

"We are special emissaries from God," said the first angel as both walked closer to Elemi, "sent here because your people serve Him so faithfully. He is greatly pleased with the work you have done in His name, and you will all be gloriously rewarded when you ascend into Heaven. But," continued the angel, "there is an abomination here, an abomination that He refuses to tolerate any longer. These unbelievers, these harijan, they are unworthy to breathe the same air and walk upon the same earth as the faithful. They must be stamped out, killed, every one of them, by those who serve God. Only then will He be truly pleased with the world."

Elemi felt a rush of pleasure at the angel's words, and stumbled over his reply in his excitement. "Yes––yes, I will serve––what shall I do––to begin?"

The angel smiled. "You will tell us where to find the nearest brahmans, that we may begin an organized campaign against the harijan. You will tell all you meet that you have seen us and what we have said. And when the time comes, you and the rest of your village will take up arms and fight in God's name to create a world of devoted believers, singing the praises of the Almighty!"

Elemi thrilled to hear those words, and he trembled with anticipation. "I will. I––I will," he said.

"So that your words will not be doubted, I shall give you a token of our meeting." And the angel reached behind him, and pulled a feather from his wing.

He handed it to Elemi, and it shone as water shines when light from the sunset falls on it. Elemi took it reverently, and watched as the angels lifted their powerful wings, beat them once, twice, and lifted from the ground. Soon they had passed above the treetops, and he could see them no longer. He stood motionless for a moment, clutching the feather to his chest, and then he turned and fled back towards the village, feeling electrified in every limb of his body. He had seen these angels, had heard the grand destiny of a world united in belief. And God was pleased with him!

In the trees where the angels had stood, there was a strange patch of air. From one side it was invisible, and from the other it was exactly like a window hanging above the ground.

* * *

It had been a week since Will's trip to Southampton. He had ridden the bus back home and torn up the note he had left. When Mary and his mother returned, he had said nothing of his trip or the knife. He had hidden the knife inside his mattress and done his best to forget it was there. 

He knew he should break it. He should break it, and throw the pieces into the deepest hole he could find. But he couldn't do it. Each time he decided he should break the knife, he knelt down and felt under his bed for the vertical slash he had made, hidden in the shadows near the metal frame. He would get as far as pulling out the sheath before his fortitude failed him, and he shoved it back.

While he couldn't break the knife, neither could he use it. He did not have strength enough for any decisive course of action, and frequently he would imagine the rest of his life torn with indecision, and he knew his life would have been much better had he never fixed the knife at all. And yet…he could not destroy it.

He went down that evening to join Mary and his mother for dinner. It was nearly eight o'clock, but they always ate late because Mary taught an evening class at the nearby university where she worked. Will and his mother no longer lived in their shabby old house in Winchester; they had moved to the city's outskirts, into a three-story house with a separate apartment on the ground floor. Mary could live there independently of the upper stories, which had their own balcony entrance, but she joined them for dinner nearly every night.

Will and his mother liked the new house, because it was not the old house. The memories there were too unpleasant, especially for Will, who could not pass the stairs without remembering the way the man had tripped over Moxie and pitched down them. He did not exactly blame himself for the man's death, though he knew he _would_ have killed them both if it had come to that. It had only been an accident after all, and he had been defending himself and his home against intruders. At least, that was what the courts had decided. Mary, too, had been able to escape any serious trouble, although she had been faced with some heavy fines for the destruction of private property.

Their dinner conversation that night revolved around the same topics they had been discussing for the last few days.

"They're all talking about it at the college," said Mary. "No one's really worried yet, but everyone's puzzled about it. I don't know what to say to them." She put down her fork and sighed.

Will's mother looked anxious. "They've got to understand that this is serious. It might not be just a passing thing, and by the time they realize that, it might be too late to do anything about it."

"But it's difficult, because there's no _reason_ for it." Mary shrugged helplessly. "No one can see any reason, so they don't know what's causing this sudden change. And _that's_ really the part that should worry them. Goodness knows it worries _me_." She picked up her fork again, held it over her plate for a moment, set it down again. "Of course the worst part is that we sit here discussing this but we don't _do_ anything about it." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "We're just as bad as they are. Worse."

Will looked up then. "So why _don't_ we do anything about it? This would be the right time, wouldn't it, before it's too late? You said that, didn't you Mum?"

"Well, yes…"

"We're the ones with the responsibility," persisted Will. "Who else knows the truth about the Authority?"

"We can't exactly broadcast that around," said Mary. "The way the churches are acting now, they'd probably throw us in jail for heresy, or blasphemy, or high crimes against the state, or whatever they happen to be calling it when someone says something they don't like."

Will's mother looked alarmed. "They won't ever go that far, I hope."

Mary only raised her eyebrows and resumed eating.

"I don't like it," said Will. "It's strange. It's just…strange. Metatron is destroyed, isn't he? And there isn't any reason in this world for the churches to start getting more powerful like this."

"No," said Mary suddenly. Will looked at her questioningly. "I mean, yes, Metatron is dead, but… I told you this, didn't I? I must've told you. Serafina Pekkala, she told me that the Kingdom had always tried to oppress people and keep them from truth and wisdom…and maybe it had suffered a defeat, but it would regroup under a different leader."

Will blinked. "Of course. Yes. I hadn't thought."

But Mary was frowning and biting her lip, and she spoke slowly. "And she said…we must be ready to fight against it."

"Well then," said Will, "that's clear enough, isn't it? It's the same thing the angel told us." He did not need to say who "us" was. "She said we must teach people to be kind and curious and open-minded, because that's how we make Dust."

"And so we must fight against opression and intolerance," murmured his mother.

"Yes," said Will.

* * *

AN: And so…the plot thickens. Well, more like "the plot actually begins." I know it was kind of a long wait for that somewhat wimpy little chapter, sorry about that. My teachers think it's fun to assign a bunch of projects/papers all at the end of the year, all at the same time, in addition to our usual amount of homework and IB tests in two weeks.

You won't find those Vergil lines at the beginning in any translation of _The Aeneid_, because they were done by yours truly for her Latin class and I thought they were somewhat appropriate. Also, you will notice I have borrowed the Hindu caste system, slightly modified, for use in Elemi's world. Brahmans are the priests who tell everyone what God's will is; kshatriyas are the religious police who enforce the brahmans' proclamations; vaishyas are the merchants, shopowners, whatever, who carry out the day-to-day business; shudras are the farmers and artisans who do all the real work; and harijan are the untouchables who reject God.

Okay, I have only one more thing to say. Actually, it's really more of a cry for help. If anyone wants to e-mail me and GIVE ME SUGGESTIONS FOR THIS STORY, it would make me very happy. I know what's going on generally and what's going on specifically in the next couple chapters, but after that I get a little hazy. Please! Help!

Oh! One more thing! Reviewers! They're so great! Aren't reviewers great?

reubenae – (hands first-reviewer award to reubenae) Thank you! Read more! And don't forget to review! About the second chapter, whenever I get around to doing second drafts, I'll clarify and add "Cittágazze, ca. 300 years previously" or something like that.

Zarroc – I didn't realize that chapter was confusing, but since you asked about it too, I guess it was.

Danny Barefoot – Thank you. Have you ever actually _felt_ like your heart was beating out of your chest? It doesn't feel very pleasant.

Trojan Horse – Many thanks to you too. I'm definitely reading your sequel, and if you have any ideas for my story they would be greatly! appreciated! And hey! My Vergil quote is about the Trojan horse! Nifty!


	4. Chapter 3: Meetings

AN: Hmmm…I guess I haven't updated in, um, kind of a very long time. I _have_ been working on this story, though, and this chapter has actually been written for a while, but it was scattered in a few different notebooks and I only got around to ferreting it all out tonight. The workload at school is crazy now, 'cause about five of my teachers evilly decided to assign a bunch of huge projects all due in the same week, and THREE of them are due Tuesday. So I had to do my IB history thingy today, only while I was busy procrastinating on that I decided to type up this chapter and post it. And here it is. And it might not take too long for the next chapter either, since I already have a good start on it. Also, expect a rewrite of the previous chapter sometime…well, not soon, but sometime, anyway, 'cause I really don't like the second half.

Disclaimer: This chapter pretty much belongs entirely to me. Well, except for Trollesund. And Lanselius and the witches. Oh, and the entirety of the world it's set in. Those belong to that Pullman guy. But other than that, it's all mine. _Ethan_ is definitely mine. I'm in love with him.

* * *

_Not often in the story of mankind does a man arrive on earth who is both steel and velvet, who is as hard as a rock and soft as drifting fog, who holds in his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect.  
_–Carl Sandburg

Trollesund was a smallish city, considering it was the main port of Lapland, mostly a collection of bars, restaurants, stores, and lodge houses, all catering to the large transient population of the city. There were few local comforts, because there were few locals to be comforted by them: the government officials, whose main concerns were trading and fishing rights, the law enforcement, which was mainly occupied with breaking up drunken brawls, and the proprietors of the many establishments and those they employed. The witches had a consul there, a solitary man living on the edge of town, his house crowded and uncertain surrounded by food stores, clothing stores, supply stores.

The streets were never full, but there were always people walking along them, not rushing people, not hurrying with the self-important air of those in some larger cities, but purposeful people, self-absorbed only out of a concentration on their particular task. The streets never truly emptied, because people arrived at all hours, and at all hours they had things to do to prepare their expeditions, for trade or diplomacy or research.

Occasionally there were lulls in the traffic, during the warmer months when the snow became softer and the sledges would not always run easily. The streets were treacherous then, as the snow half-melted and then refroze into dangerous, icy lumps and puddles.

Through one of these streets walked a young man, perhaps twenty, perhaps twenty-five, with his otter dæmon loping at his side. He was dark-haired, dressed in furs and tall, sturdy boots, carrying only a large oilskin bag by a shoulder strap. Unlike most he did not seem to have any particular chore to accomplish, for as he walked he looked curiously from side to side at the buildings lining the streets and at the other people walking by.

The young man and his dæmon walked into a restaurant, where he sat at the bar and slung the bag at his feet as she crouched next to him. He continued looking around, contrasting noticeably with the grizzled, experienced Arctic traders who formed the majority of the room's population.

"Yeah?" grunted the bartender, busy and short-handed in the early afternoon hours.

"I've never been here before," said the man easily. "What would you recommend I order?"

The bartender looked at him sourly. "Don't be cute," he said shortly, before hurrying to the other side of the bar where another customer was calling him.

The young man looked surprised and slightly crestfallen. A low chuckle from the next stool caused him to turn and see a man, about forty, with a broad face and blonde stubbled beard, a thick glass tankard sitting on the bar in front of him. The man grinned. "What's your name, son?"

"I'm Ethan. Herrera," he replied.

"Well, Ethan," said the older man companionably, "I would recommend orderin' the seal liver. Vitamins, you know. Healthy stuff. Bears eat it raw."

"Do they?" asked Ethan politely. "Don't they eat everything raw?"

The other man laughed again, in apparent delight at Ethan's reply. "So they do," he said. "Where're you from, son?"

Ethan shrugged, smiled. "I don't consider myself as being _from_ anywhere."

"You been to a lotta places, then?" the man asked, also smiling, sounding amused.

Ethan only nodded. The bartender came back, took his order, left again.

"So where you goin' to, then?" asked the man.

"I thought I'd like to see the witches."

The man was startled for a moment, and then he laughed, loudly and abruptly. "Listen, son," he said, amused again, "you can't just _drop in_ an' see the witches. They don't exactly take casual visitors."

"Oh," said Ethan. "Well, how does anyone ever see them, then?"

"They don't."

"The witches don't take visitors at all?"

The man shrugged. "I dunno. They might. Suppose they do. I'm just sayin', no one _wants_ to visit 'em. Those witches…" He shuddered. "They're _unnatural_, they are. Those dæmons they have…" The man's dæmon, a sled dog leaning against his stool, let out a small whine. "Y'know, I heard," the man began conspiratorially, leaning closer and lowering his voice, "I heard they get rogue dæmons. Those witches do some hocus-pocus to 'em, give 'em special powers, only sometimes it goes wrong, and the dæmon turns on 'em." He nodded gravely, sat back on his stool, and picked up his tankard.

Ethan frowned. "Really? I've never heard anything like that."

"Ah, well, y'said yourself this is your first time here. It's not somethin' any old stranger would know. Only us old Arctic hands, we know this place backwards and forwards." He nodded again. "Name's Tegan."

"Nice to meet you," Ethan said politely, leaning on his forearms and looking at the other man. "Know this place backwards and forwards, do you?"

"Certainly do, son."

"But you don't know how to get in touch with the witches."

Tegan winked at him. "Oh, you want to get in _touch_ with 'em, do you?" he said, leering suggestively over the brim of his glass. When Ethan didn't respond, he went on, "They got a, a whaddayacallit, a consul here."

"Here in Trollesund?"

"That's right. 'S over that way." He waved his hand vaguely to the right and drank from the tankard in his hand.

Ethan nodded, not replying. The bartender brought his order.

"What you lookin' for the witches for, anyway?" asked Tegan, letting his tankard land with a thump on the worn wooden bartop.

Ethan shrugged. "No reason. Just curious about them, really."

Tegan stared at him in disbelief. "You're _curious_? You want t'visit the wiches 'cause you're _curious_?"

"Is there something wrong with that?" asked Ethan, sounding concerned, eyebrows creased.

Tegan paused before answering, carefully sipping his drink. "Well, now, I don't know there's anythin' _wrong_ with it, exactly. It's just…" he paused again, mouth moving slightly. "Just not somethin' people _do_," he said finally. "Not 'round here, leastways. But you're not from 'round here, are you?"

Ethan shook his head, but remained quiet as he ate the meal the bartender had brought­­––seal liver, as Tegan had recommended.

"Closed-mouth kid, aren't you?" asked Tegan shrewdly.

Ethan didn't reply, but ate in silence for several moments, then said, "So this consul you mentioned. Where exactly is his office?"

"Oh, he don't got no office, son. Just an ordinary house. 'S on the next street over, at the end between Stevenson's an' the Post. Name of Lanselius."

Ethan nodded, but when he said nothing, Tegan went on, "You'll be headin' over there, then?"

"Guess so." He paused. "What do you know about him?"

"Lanselius? I dunno. A good enough sort. Don't see him around much. Keeps to 'imself, like." Tegan paused as well. "Don't know as he'll think you gotta see the witches real urgent, mind, if you're just curious, like y'said." He fixed a shrewd eye on the younger man and raised one eyebrow.

"Yes," said Ethan, "I can see they mightn't want people coming only out of curiosity."

Tegan surveyed him a moment or two, then began laughing heartily while Ethan watched, surprise and puzzlement clearly written on his face.

"You are somethin' special, young Ethan," Tegan said when his laughter had subsided. "I don't understand… How'd you come t'be here?"

"Iwas over in Germany, and I thought it would be interesting to learn more about the witches, and since I was already nearby…" He shrugged. "I just came."

"Germany, eh? Where were you before that?"

"Oh…Switzerland. I wasn't there long."

"Do you really just travel about?" asked Tegan.

"Yes. I told you."

"How long you been doin' that, then?"

"Since I was sixteen."

"An' how old are you now?"

"Twenty-five. Just twenty-five."

"Huh," said Tegan, shaking his head and draining his tankard. "Well, you are somethin' special," he said again. "You are quite the character, Mr…what was it?"

"Herrera."

"Right. So you Spanish, then?"

Ethan shook his head. "Native American."

"Huh," said Tegan again, and called for another drink.

* * *

Ethan stood outside the small, two-story house on the edge of the city, not far from the vast, frigid sea. The green paint was still smart, though beginning to peel, and the house looked…uneasy, almost, if that word could even be applied to a building. Ethan automatically sympathized with it, although if you had asked him, he would have said it was only a house and didn't have the feelings of a human.

"What will you say to him?" asked his dæmon from the wet snow on the side of the street.

Ethan frowned briefly. "I don't know. I'd like to ask about the dæmons…the witches'. I don't think what Tegan said can be right."

"There are strange things in the Arctic," she said cryptically. "But I mean, how will you persuade him to let usvisit the witches? We won't leave without doing that, not now we've got it in our head to do."

"I know, Kai," replied Ethan with a small smile. "I'll just…tell him I'm curious. That's all."

"Yes, but like Tegan said, they won't want people visiting just to satisfy curiosity."

"I suppose not. But if he won't let me, or show me how, or whatever it is he's supposed to do, I'll just find another way."

Kai nodded. She was not surprised.

Ethan bent down and picked her up from the snow, cradling her with his right arm against his waist as he walked up the walk to the front door and raised his hand to ring the bell.

The door opened before his fingers could reach it. A fat man with short, graying brown hair and a plump, flushed face stood under the lintel. He was somewhat shorter than Ethan and regarded him with shrewd, appraising eyes. A small, bright green serpent dæmon curled about one arm of his dark gray suit.

"I was watching you from the window," he said before Ethan could introduce himself. "I'm the consul. Martin Lanselius." He paused for a moment. "Come in." And he disappeared from the doorway into a door on the right.

Ethan glanced down at Kai. That had been far easier than they had expected. He stepped across the threshold and closed the front door behind him on the snow-filled street and the faltering stream of people filtering through it.

In the darkened hallway, he glanced around before following Lanselius. There was a bright rug on the dark wood floor, and two more rooms that he could see leading off into the dimness. The corridor was high-ceilinged and paneled in expensive-looking reddish wood, and the effect might have been impressive, even opulent, if the light hadn't been so dim. As it was, the area was merely oppressive. What did Lanselius live on? wondered Ethan. Did the witches perhaps pay him a salary? What kind of money did witches use, anyway? Somehow the ideas of witchesand money seemed entirely incongruous to him. How was it that people knew so little about the witches, about the Arctic in general? Even Tegan, the "old Arctic hand," even he had seemed to know little, for all his talk.

He would ask Lanselius. Ethan followed the consul into the small parlor, where the man stood waiting for him.

Lanselius strode across the room, which didn't take long, and opened the curtains. The bright Arctic sunlight flooded the room, revealing the expensive-looking furnishings but also, somehow, a slight feeling of dustiness, although everything looked passably clean to Ethan. Outside the window was a small white shed, the nearest wall of which was decorated with branches of some kind of pine or spruce, Ethan was too far away to tell which.

"Have a seat," said Lanselius, sitting himself on the couch with his back to the window. Ethan sat on an upholstered wooden chair, across a small table from the other man, and settled Kai onto his lap.

"What are you here for? What's your name?" asked the consul as soon as Ethan was seated, leaning forward to examine his face. Ethan noticed that the man's eyes were the same brilliant emerald as his dæmon's scales, and they were regarding him with shrewdness and even suspicion.

"My name is Ethan Herrera," said Ethan. Then he paused. Kai shifted against his stomach. "I'm here because I want to see the witches."

"That _is_ generally what people come here for," said Lanselius blandly. "They also generally have some sort of important reason for it, as well. Often people come here wanting to redeem some favor a witch promised them years ago. Or even a favor promised to their father or mother. The witches _do_ live a long time, you know."

"Do they?" asked Ethan eagerly. "And so then people _do_ meet the witches."

"Oh, certainly. Around the Arctic it is not uncommon to come across them. Perhaps not in other places, although I understand the witches will occasionally don more ordinary clothing in order to do some…discrete travelling. There is a certain superstition surrounding the witches, you see…" He eyed Ethan beadily, and the snake raised her small green head and flicked her tongue rapidly.

Ethan nodded. "Yes. I've come across it." He hesitated. "I've heard there is something odd about their dæmons. Can you tell me what it is?" Kai looked over at the consul's dæmon, who had lain her head onto the man's sleeve and was paying no attention to Kai at all.

"Ah, well, that's a matter that the superstition has some basis for, I must admit. However the…stories are not often true." He hesitated as well. "What have you heard?"

"Oh…just some bar man's tale. I didn't think it could be true, but he seemed to believe it."

"Oh, undoubtedly," said Lanselius. He seemed to be relaxing now, no longer surveying Ethan suspiciously. "I know the type…they hear some rumor and they eat it up because that's what they want to hear; they've grown up with superstition against the witches." He shook his head. "Even here, where we should know most about them, many know very little. But the dæmons…yes. There is a certain plain, deep in the Artic, where nothing grows and nothing can live. The snow does not even settle on it. The witches send their daughters there when their dæmons have settled––"

Kai's otter ears twitched at this, but Ethan did not interrupt.

"––and they must cross the plain. It is inimical to life as I have said, and nothing truly, wholly living may cross it. So the dæmons must stay behind while thegirls cross."

Ethan and Kai continued looking at Lanselius and his dæmon. They did not register that the consul had finished his explanation. "What do you mean?" Ethan asked finally when Lanselius did not continue.

"They walk across. Their daemons stay behind," Lanselius repeated. He smiled, ruefully, pityingly.

Ethan only stared. How could that be? It was like saying they walked without legs or saw without eyes, but far, far worse. Like saying they lived without souls. It was an abomination. "What––happens to their dæmons?" he asked, unaware that he was clutching Kai painfully tightly.

"Oh, they are not sundered forever," Lanselius reassured him quickly. "After the witch crosses the plain, which may take a day or two or only several hours, for it is an odd place––the dæmon will generally avoid her for some time, as a sort of punishment. No one knows what he does during this time, not even the witch. But when he returns to her, they are as whole and connected as ever. It is not…they are not _severed_." His dæmon's skin rippled in a brief shiver. "But they are not, perhaps, quite the same as before. They are not quite…the same person. They will have…secrets."

Ethan was both fascinated and slightly repelled by this information. He had loosened his grip on Kai, who was gazing, bright-eyed and interested, at the consul's serpent. He could not imagine knowing anything or thinking anything or feeling anything that Kai did not also experience at the same moment. And yet a shiver ran through him at the idea, and it was not entirely unpleasant.

Lanselius remained silent, watching Ethan with a small frown on his face. He glanced down at the snake entwined about his arm, glanced over his shoulder out the window, and then turned back to Ethan. "Why am I telling you these things?" he murmured. "You are a stranger, I…know nothing about you… Your name is Ethan?" he added more sharply.

"Ethan Herrera. Yes." Ethan said nothing more, because the consul had not asked, and he had no concept of pressing his suit with guile.

Lanselius tapped his right fingers on his leg, looking off to the side, clearly considering something. "I have…" he began suddenly, trailing off before beginning again. "I have learned to…to not disregard these sorts of things. I have learned…through my close association with the witches…and now in the past year or two…well, there are forces that work in the world that we…that we do not comprehend, but nevertheless they are there, and they may guide…" he trailed off again. His dæmon, too, seemed anxious, and coiled about his arm in closer folds.

Ethan listened politely, but he was somewhat impatient. What did it matter what forces there were, if he could not see them or touch them? Perhaps they _did_ exist or perhaps not, it did not matter: Things were as they were, whatever the cause or the force behind them.

Lanselius looked back at Ethan. He had clearly come to some sort of decision. "Right," he said briskly. "I've got a feeling about you, boy. I'm going to take you to meet Serafina Pekkala, she's the witch queen at Lake Enara. Although it is not…not something that…" He seemed to lose his purpose for a moment, and he frowned uncertainly as his dæmon twitched. "But like I said, I've got a feeling and I think…I think the witches had better sort you out. Of course, I have other ways of contacting them, but I think…I think you may need a personal introduction."

He gazed at Ethan a moment longer before standing up. "Right," he said again. "You will stay here tonight, plenty do, I've got rooms for you. And tomorrow…I will rent a boat or a balloon and I will take you to the clan."

"Oh," said Ethan, also standing up, somewhat taken aback. He had arrived with a completely groundless request, no plan at all, and now he was receiving an introduction to the witch queen from the consul himself? He was grateful for Lanselius's "feeling," regardless of what the man believed to have caused it. "Thank you very much." Kai clambered from his arms and jumped to the floor, standing on her back legs to peer more closely at the small serpent.

"I'll take you to your room," said Lanselius. "You have eaten? Good. Then I will expect you downstairs at half-past five. We will be leaving early."

Ethan followed him out of the room, down the hall, and up the stairs, Kai loping along behind. The windows on the top floor had no curtains, so the atmosphere was less gloomy. It was not furnished in the same dark opulence, either, but rather with clean, light wood and fresh colors. Lanselius walked a short way down the upstairs hall, then opened a door on the left.

It was a small bedroom, with nothing more than a bed, a night table, a dresser, and a window, but furnished in the same manner as the corridor which opened onto it.

"There's a study across the hall," said Lanselius. "And a lavatory." He stopped talking, his right hand jiggling nervously. He smiled briefly, said "Have a good night," and departed back down the stairs.

Ethan sighed and looked around for Kai. She was exploring the room, slinking low to the ground. "A strange man," she commented.

Ethan laughed softly, following her into the room to sink cautiously onto the bed. "He was just nervous."

"Yes. He was suspicious, almost hostile, and then he was friendly, and then he got tense. He doesn't know if he's doing the right thing, taking us to the witches. He doesn't understand it. That makes him nervous."

"Yes…" agreed Ethan, "but it doesn't make sense. When you've decided to do something, you should just _do_ it and never mind the doubts. And never mind the reasons. It doesn't matter if you don't know why you feel the way you do. If you feel like you have to do something, then that's it, do it." He shrugged.

"Not everyone sees the world as clearly as we do," said Kai, a little sadly.

He stood still for a moment, then walked across the hall and through the door there. He sat at the small desk and stared out the window into the darkening afternoon. "So," he said, tapping his fingers on the wood. "What was her name?"

"Serafina Pekkala," Kai replied promptly. She had followed him into the study, which was exactly the same as the bedroom except it contained a desk, a few bookshelves, and some empty cabinets.

"What's the _etiquette_ for meeting a witch queen?" Ethan wondered.

"Ask the consul on the boat tomorrow."

Ethan nodded. If he were the sort, he would have worried about it, but as it was, he only decided that he had better turn in early in order to be well-rested for the following day.


	5. Chapter 4: The City

_Sound! sound! my loud war trumpets & alarm my thirteen Angels!  
Ah terrible birth! a young one bursting! where is the weeping mouth?  
And where the mother's milk? instead those ever-hissing jaws  
And parched lips drop with fresh gore; now roll thou in the clouds.  
_–William Blake

On a world, there was a city. It was not merely _a_ city, however, but rather _the_ City. It had a name, technically, but no one ever used it even if they could remember what it was. It was a big city, with tall, thick walls reminiscent of the time wars had been fought over its possession, which had been centuries ago but the walls remained. There was still an army as well, for though the City was firmly in domination of the rest of the world, there were still occasional resistance movements mounted, weak little thingsthough they were. No, the rebellions were of no threat to the City, but nevertheless they were put down quickly, for it would not do to have people rebelling against the rule of the Authority.

The government of the City was of an odd sort. It was not elected, but rather sent down from heaven, by the Authority himself. The people were given to understand that this was one of the highest honors that could be bestowed, only given to worlds that were the epitome of righteous obedience. There were three angels who visited the world frequently, sometimes staying for great lengths of time but more often only giving instructions and then departing. They were called Shatomi, Mergola, and Bedoran, but the people, partly out of respect and partly out of fear, did not often say their names directly. Not many things were said directly in the City, or, although less so, in the rest of the world. People would shuffle up toall subjects sideways and edge around them, never facing anything straight on, the true point always being stabbed at but never touched. It was a world of lies, where no one ever looked directly at or into anyone else--everyone staring desperately into blackness, finding nothing to see and no one to return their gaze.

This was how life had been in the three full centuries since the Authority had assumed complete control. But seven months ago there had been a change, the first change since the end of the Great War: The angels had given instructions as usual, but then they had left, and they had not returned.

The High Council of Commissars––which would have ruled in the absence of the angels, but as it was only carried out the angels' commands––had doneits best to keep from the people the news of the angels' disappearance, for it would not do at all for them to know that their world seemed to have lost its divine guidance. The great majority of the commissars, each of whom had dominion over a particular area of the world's governance, had no special expertise in their province. They were accustomed to merely taking orders from the angels and relaying them to their underlings, who would carry them out. The offices were largely ceremonial, and the commissars' continual fumbling in recent months had quickly drawn the attention of the citizens. The angels were not often seen even in normal times, but the continued absence of any sightings, combined with the commissar's foibles, were becoming conspicuous. The officials had given out that the angels had merely been staying for short lengths of time, but the people were becoming anxious that they had lost the favor of heaven and that their divine governors had departed forever.

Strangely, perhaps, the atmosphere in the City was much improved, for people had ceased approaching the issue of the angels, at least, from an indirect angle. They may have been scared and apprehensive and worried, but at least they were genuine. The fear brought it out in them and fostered a sense of community and mutual cooperation.

The commissars thought this was dangerous. Their hold on the City, without the authority of the angels behind them, was tenuous at best. So far they had managed to hold on to it only because the people did not yet have certain knowledge of the angels' departure.

And then, seven months after the angelshad left, the commissars received news that a mysterious band of soldiers had appeared quite suddenly in the forest a mile or two to the west of the City. Moreover, they were allied with and accompanied by a large number of the cursed Gallivespian race. These demons had been persecuted since the beginning, and nearly exterminated in the aftermath of the Great War. The remainder had gone into hiding, and while raiding parties would occasionally come across their dens, the true number of them had been largely unknown for several hundred years.

The High Council met in the government office building to discuss the situation, in a large room around a wooden table where they used to gather to hear the angels' commands.

"We must destroy this upstart little army!" said Gehran in his deep, authoritative voice. He was Commissar of Defense, and some of his fellow commissars were of the suspicion that he was secretly enjoying this opportunity to take charge and lead a few battles, in truth as well as in name, rather than merely obeying the angels.

"Technically speaking, friend," said Levans, Commissar of Information, "we know next to nothing about this army. It may, in fact, be quite large. The forest to the west of the City is sufficient to hide many thousands of soldiers. Not to mention the demons, which as we know have their own…unique…abilities."

"Be that as it may," said Gehran, not the least deterred, "action must be taken directly. The people _must_ see that we are acting decisively and at once."

"If we had been able to keep this…_army_'s arrival secret," began Mens (Commisar of Finance) acidly, directing his comment at both Gehran and Levans, "then there would be no need to worry about what the people must see."

"It's a bit difficult to keep things quiet when it's a two hundred-man trader's caravan that brings us the news in the first place. We could _hardly_ imprison them all, friend," corrected Levans apologetically in his dry little voice.

"Nevertheless," persisted Mens, "if Commissar Gehran had not immediately raised the alarm and called up the army…"

"Please," said Tellus briskly, "let us not argue about our predicament. We all agree, I believe, that we are _in_ a predicament, so let us focus on what can be done to ameliorate the situation."

There was a small silence after Tellus's announcement as each commissar stewed in his own private bitterness. Tellus (Commissar of Foreign Relations) fancied himself a diplomat and had, in the days since the angels' disappearance, attempted to take control of the council. The others would not have been so annoyed with him had it not been so apparent that he had succeeded. He was calm and rational and encouraging, but endingly patronizing. If there were one commissar all the others hated, even more so than Mens hated Gehran (Mens hated everyone, but Gehran in particular), it was Tellus. Nevertheless, they knew he spoke sense and, even as their resentment grew, they obeyed.

"So," continued Tellus, "the most important thing is to convince the City that the angels remain in control and everything is running smoothly. As long as they believe we have divine guidance, the people will follow us and there will be no problems."

"Except the most obvious one," said Belshiv bluntly. He had always been the most direct commissar, even before the angels' departure, when so few people had been direct about anything. If there were any commissar that the others all liked, it was Belshiv, even though, before, his company had generally been avoided due to the discomfort of his directness. Now, however, the other commissars had begun to seek him out for, ironically, the comfort his directness now brought. He was perhaps a more natural leader of the group than Tellus, for his guidance did not inspire hatred, but he had made no attempt to take over the group and was by far the least affected of the commissars by the angels' disappearance.

He was the Commissar of Transportation and Communication, and he handled that job quickly and efficiently, with few underlings. Consequently, the City's life had continued with no real disruption in that area, but it was one of the few areas in which there were none.

"Yes, friend?" asked Tellus politely, turning to Belshiv. If there were any commissar who was a threat to Tellus's leadership, it was Belshiv, and Tellus knew it. He held no particular dislike for the man and even, from a personal viewpoint, enjoyed his companionship as the others now did. From a professional and political viewpoint, however, Tellus knew that the man and his bluntness were dangerous to his own position, if, that is, Belshiv ever made a move to consolidate his leadership. Tellus had begun to put in place several discrete plans for eliminating his fellow commissar, should such a thing prove necessary. It was not that he, Tellus, was a bad man: He merely saw what needed to be done and experienced no qualms about doing it. He kept his personal opinions quite separate from what was necessary.

"None of us save for you, me, and Commissar Terkin have any idea what we are doing," said Belshiv.

Terkin (Commissar of Agriculture) was by far the quietest member of the council. He had always taken the angels' orders quietly and executed them efficiently and, like Belshiv, with few underlings. In the seven months since the angels' disappearance, he had contributed to the Council's discussions only rarely and only when he had something that truly needed to be said. When Belshiv's remark drew the attention of the council to him, he shifted in his seat but met their gaze.

If it had been Tellus who had admitted the Council's ineptitude––not that he would have––it would have sounded supercilious and arrogant, and the others would have been highly offended. But because it was Belshiv, they were relieved that their inadequacy had been spotted and that they would not be expected to know what they were doing. Gehran, however, swelled in anger.

"I am certainly capable of leading an army, I assure you, Commissar Belshiv," he blustered, the only incompetent commissar who entertained the delusion of being competent.

"Yes, yes, we know, friend. Commissar Belshiv is merely––" Tellus soothed, but he was interrupted by Belshiv.

"None of us have any doubt of your ability to lead an army, Gehran. The men will follow you. But if we are to oust this army in the woods without the direction of Bedoran, we will need a thorough understanding of strategy. You cannot do it, and nor can I, nor any of the rest of us."

Gehran subsided, appeased. Oddly enough, it was Belshiv, with his blunt honestly, who often managed to say things that achieved a far more diplomatic end than Tellus's carefully contrived lies.

Nevertheless, it could not be denied that Tellus was good at what he did. As Commisar of Foreign Relations, he was responsible for overseeing the interactions of the various other councils of other cities across the world. This job rarely, if ever, required his own personal appearance; he communicated mainly through dispatches and a group of travelling counselors who would negotiate on his behalf. When he was represented in this way, Tellus's attempts at diplomacy and reconciliation were quite often successful as they were not hampered by his personality.

"Then what do we do?" asked Levans, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

"Our good Commissar makes an excellent point," said Tellus, nodding to Belshiv as though he had only brought up a point Tellus himself was planning to introduce shortly. The other commissars (with the exception of Belshiv himself) quietly imagined how good it would feel to see Tellus tumble from a tall building, for example, or accidentally fall onto the point of his belt-knife.

It seems odd that the one with perhaps the most reason to hate Tellus, the one with the most reason to feel cheated that Tellus was leading the Council, felt no personal animosity toward the other man at all. Belshiv could not say he _liked_ the man, but as he had no desire himself to lead the Council, he had no reason to resent Tellus for that offense, and he had long since stopped caring about annoying personality traits. In fact Belshiv and Tellus were far more alike than they knew or anyone else suspected: Both had the ability to look at a situation, decide what needed to be done, and then do it. The difficulty was, they often had very different ideas about what exactly it was that needed to be done.

"What we need to do," said Tellus confidently, "is this: Each of you must adequately learn the basics of your particular field. Give those under your command the most general of instructions, and then watch what they do. Discretely, discretely, of course. I think I can say that the post will continue running smoothly while Commissar Belshiv is in charge, and that the harvest will not go awry under the hand of Commissar Terkin," he added, with an encouraging, indulgent smile. "And of course, the world will not collapse into chaos and warfare while _I_ am Commissar of Foreign Relations," he finished as the others glowered at him.

"What we need to do," said Belshiv matter-of-factly, "is bring in experts who can fill advisory positions to the Council."

"Ah, but, friend," said Levans, "these advisors would surely then notice the absence of the angels."

Belshiv nodded, once, but did not reply.

"I am sure," began Tellus, somewhat acidly, "that our _good_ Commissar Belshiv is not suggesting we be indiscrete."

"I am not suggesting anything, Tellus. You know my opinion on this."

"But, Commissar Belshiv," began Levans, hestitantly and half-apologetically, "surely you see that we cannot let the people know of the angels' departure? It would be…disastrous. We would be overthrown in an instant! Anarchy would reign!"

"Commissar Levans is correct," said Mens. "The people would be enraged, they would be sure we had done something to anger the Authority and lose divine favor. They would murder us in our sleep," he said harshly.

"If we have indeed done something to lose the favor of heaven," said Terkin quietly, "then maybe we should be overthrown."

Terkin was easily the most religious of the commissars, the most truly devoted to the angels and not merely to the power they bestowed. Consequently, he was the only one who had ever shown any support for Belshiv's insistence that they annouce the angels' extended absence. Belshiv was sure that if the people saw the commissars continuing to govern effectively, they would not dare to rise against them and risk the anarchy Levans and Mens foresaw. Terkin, on the other hand, felt that if the people _did_ rise against them, it would be because the Council had done the Authority some terrible offense and deserved its demise.

"As Commissar Belshiv says," said Tellus pacifyingly, "we all know one another's opinions. Rest assured, no one will tell anyone anything until we have agreed on this issue."

Belshiv snorted loudly, a clear indication of his view on the likelihood of agreement.

"Meanwhile," Tellus went on, "I suggest we all devote our time to learning the particular intricacies of our respective fields. We will tackle the issue of this renegade army when we have sufficient knowledge. Commissar Levans, I trust you will see to your part."

"If they haven't learned by now," said Belshiv, "they never will as long as they keep using your ever-more 'discrete' methods. This is not the time for discretion."

"This is exactly the time for discretion!" snapped Tellus. The other commissars stared at him in surprise, for if there was one thing Tellus never did, it was lose his temper.

Tellus stood up, his jaw clenched rigidly. "This meeting is over," he said. "We will meet again tomorrow." He walked out of the room without waiting for replies. Belshiv stood and walked out as well, followed closely by Terkin.

Mens, Gehran, and Levans looked at each other.

"Friends," said Mens, looking from one to the other with a small smile on his face, "I believe we have just witnessed the beginning of a schism."

Levans looked worried, and Gehran frowned. "Belshiv?" he asked. "Belshiv has never attempted to seize power from Tellus."

"Perhaps not." Mens shrugged, as if this fact were negligible. "Nevertheless, he has been opposing Tellus since the angels failed to return. Soon he will be forced to act against Tellus, or he will be dismissed as a foolish, ineffectual yammerer who does not act on his assertions. I'm betting on the former. Terkin will follow him. The only question left, friends, is this: Whose side will we be on?" Still smiling in that small, pleased, and slightly nasty way, he stood and left the room.

Levans stared worriedly after him. "Do you think he's right?" he asked Gehran in a hushed voice.

"No," replied Gehran, too loudly. "Belshiv has always disagreed with Tellus, and he's never broken from the Council before."

"But if…what side would _we_ be on?"

"Mens will be only on his own side, as always," Gehran replied sourly, "and we…we, friend, will have to act at our own…discretion." And with that, he left the room.

Levans say, unmoving, for a moment longer, an uneasy expression on his face. He pushed his chair back and hurried from the Council chamber.

* * *

About nine miles to the southwest of the City, in the middle of a thick forest, there was a slight clearing with a small wooden shelter at its edge. A man came to the door and looked around, his eyes narrowed. He was fairly dirty, but not as unclean as might be expected, given that he had been living in his rough hut for about fifteen years. His brown hair had been roughly chopped close to his skull, revealing a strong, suspicious face. He wore patched and torn trousers and shirt, belted with a frayed cord. His body was heavy-boned, tanned, and muscular, and the set of his bare feet indicated that he was ready to leap forward, to fight or to run. 

He had been coming to the door of his hut all morning, for he sensed something different in the forest. For fifteen years he had lived with a feeling of utter solitude, but now that feeling was gone, to be replaced by one of uneasy awareness that someone was standing just beyond where he could see them. He knew his forest, and he knew that something had changed.

He walked out of the hut and peered intentlyto his leftfor several moments before coming to a decision and striding into the trees. Hewalked quietly for about half an hour before coming to a primitive trap he had set up many years before. Opening it,he found a ground pheasant, already dead. He quickly tied one end of his rope belt around its neck, and then continued walking in the same direction.

He didn't know how long it would be before he found what he was looking for, which was why he had stopped at one of his traps. But it didn't take him long to reach his destination.

After a little over two hours of walking, he started hearing voices, loud ones, and the other sounds of a camp being set up. He paused and listened, but could understand nothing and so walked cautiously forward.

As he drew closer, he could see through the trees a clearing which was being enlarged by many people, cutting down trees and hauling them off somewhere he couldn't see. He had passed this way on his flight from the City, so many years previously, but had not settled there because it was too close to a caravan route. Whoever these people were, they were not local, or they didn't care about being found. He couldn't imagine that they could be from the City, because their attitude seemed so different from the stilted air he remembered of City people.

Suddenly he stiffened. He had seen something through the trees, but he couldn't tell what… Knowing it would be dangerous to get any closer, he crept forward anyway.

He had reached the last few lines of trees before he could clearly see the glimpse that had so startled him. He clutched at a nearby tree trunk as his heart began to pound and his head grew light. The demons––the slaughter––the Council––flight run _coward_––

He had not seen another living person for fifteen years, but seeing people did not upset him. In some way he had forgotten, not that other people existed, but that other people were real. He had lived alone too long and had become the only person in his universe. But the demons…

As the pounding of memory began to subside, he lifted his head and looked more closely into the clearing. There were more of them than he had seen before, some flitting about on their dragonfly mounts, some riding on the shoulders of men or seated on the tree stumps that had not yet been uprooted. A hundred at least, maybe two hundred. And the men! So many of them, hundreds, maybe a thousand. And the caravan route… His thoughts froze there. The caravan route. When the next caravan came through, the scouts would undoubtedly find this camp. Perhaps they already had done. The angels––Bedoran would send out the army and they would be annihilated, all the demons, more than he had ever heard of being in one place.

He could not let that happen. Could not, not again, he would have to… He could warn them. That would be enough. It was what he hadn't done last time.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he stepped away from the tree and walked into the clearing.

* * *

Disclaimer: Okay, _this_ chapter was pretty much completely all mine. Except for the "demons"/Gallivespians. And the whole angel/Authority thing.

AN: See how quick this update was! Yay me. You can see I'm doing the author's note and disclaimer at the _end_ of the chapter just to switch things up. Please review, and tell me if this chapter was too boring, or too long. It's always hard to introduce a large number of people at once, like the commissars, but I think I did pretty well at giving them all a hook to help you remember them. Obviously Tellus and Belshiv, the leader and the dissenter, are the most important, so I went into the most detail about them. Then Terkin is the quiet religious one, Mens is the only one who's really evil, Levans is dry and exact and not very intelligent, and Gehran is just kind of blustering and not particularly intelligent either, although he has his moments. You probably caught the USSR/Marxism reference with the whole "friend" thing. You probably didn't catch the other reference...the government of the USSR was something like Union of People's Commissars, so I made the High Council of Commissars.

Next chapter will be back to Will. That was actually supposed to be part of this chapter, but the Council meeting got so long I decided to make it its own chappie. Expect Will to be involved in a power struggle/coup/assassination attempt at the City sometime in the next few chapters. Should be exciting, neh?

Just as a final point of interest, I thought I'd let you know that the whole idea for this part of the story came from some Gallivespian talking about their native world. I think it was Lord Roke talking to Mrs. Coulter and he was like, There are big people in our world too and they're mostly servants of the Authority and they think we're evil. And I wanted to write about the Gallivespians coming back and totally kicking everyone's ass, so the Gallivespian Liberation Front was born. AND…my William Blake (Taleswapper!) quote is from "America: A Prophecy." Also quoted in TAS! Yay.


	6. Chapter 5: Setting Out

AN: This chapter has been sitting around on my computer for like two years, and it's not finished but I figured I'd post what I have and wrap this thing up somehow. You may have guessed that I won't be continuing with this story; it's just too big and I don't have time. But back when I _was_ writing it I worked out pretty much the whole plot, so I figure in the next few days I'll type up a summary and post that, just to give some closure (for myself if no one else).

Thanks to all reviewers, and please enjoy this last fragment.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Setting Out**

Will went upstairs to his room after dinner and walked over to his bed without hesitating. He knelt on the floor and plunged his right hand into the slit in the bottom of the mattress. His hand found the stiff leather of the sheath and closed around it. He paused then for a moment and rested his forehead against the cold metal of the bedframe. Iorek's works echoed through his mind: _Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends_. He shuddered, but pulled the knife out anyway and stared at it. He could not use it, he knew that now.

He had _imagined_ using it, imagined it endlessly, but never seriously thought that he _would_, even if it were possible. His imagination had carried him through fixing the knife but there it stopped. He could not use it. Neither could he break it. He would live his life constantly tormented by indecision, held in equilibrium by his conflicting desires. He badly wished that he had never heard of the Burns metalcrafters.

Will pulled the knife from the sheath and stared at it, turning it slowly in his fingers. Kirjava crouched on the floor next to him and watched it too.

This was so _stupid_, thought Will. Maybe if he hid the knife away somewhere, he could go on living as he had before. He wouldn't be pulled between his desires if he could just forget that he even had the knife. But no. He wouldn't forget.

Slowly he slid the knife back into its sheath and stuffed it back into the mattress. Then he went to bed.

He thought he was dreaming. There was something––_something_––outside the window. It looked like a bird, but he knew it wasn't and, because he was dreaming, he accepted this knowledge without thought. The thing that was not a bird wanted to come inside. It tapped on the window. Will flung back the sheets and walked across the floor, Kirjava watching sleepily from the bed. The non-bird hopped inside as the window slid open. And then Will knew that he wasn't dreaming.

The angel stood on the floor before him. "You will walk a dangerous path," she said.

He knew her. She was Xaphania, the rebel angel, the one who had come to him and Lyra on the beach of the mulefa's world. It was she who had told them the truth about the knife, the truth which had caused him to destroy it and never see Lyra again.

She had also promised to close all the windows but one and destroy all the Specters. But that had been a conditional promise.

He had not _used_ the knife. But he had repaired it.

Kirjava flowed off the bed to stand next to him, her tail bristling very slightly.

"I know about the knife," Xaphania continued. "But that is not entirely why I am here. I would have come anyway, to warn you."

"Warn me about what?" asked Will warily.

Xaphania seemed to focus on something distant, some image Will could not see. "After the defeat of Metatron," she began, "most of his forces surrendered. There was a small group of angels, however, that continued resistance. Of course they were greatly outnumbered, and after a few days they fled, went into hiding. We had patrols flying across the world, searching them out, but we did not find them all because I began dispatching my angels to destroy the Specters and close windows. We did not believe these…remnants could cause us any future trouble.

"But we have recently been receiving troubling news from various worlds––five or six of them. It seems that the churches are gradually beginning to exert more and more power. It is not yet to the level it was before Metatron's demise, in some worlds at least, but we have no doubt that is where it is heading."

Will stared at her. "It's happening here," he said. "We were just talking about it."

"Yes," agreed Xaphania, "this is one of the worlds. We believe––we are nearly certain that the angels who escaped found a window, probably near the ground, and used it to spread themselves about various worlds and somehow influence the churches there."

Will shivered. If the Church took over again, then Asriel's war against the Authority would have been for nothing, and their own work as well, for Dust would surely perish.

Mary was just talking about this! he thought. Perhaps Metatron was dead, but it was a temporary victory only, for the forces of Heaven would soon regroup under a different leader. The war was not over. Perhaps it never would be. No, he corrected himself, it _certainly_ never would be. There would always be those who wished to suppress freedom and knowledge, who would keep people ignorant and submissive in order to hold onto their own power.

But that war is not mine, he thought. I finished with that two years ago.

But then why did I fix the knife?

"We did not know how to go about fighting this resurgence," continued Xaphania, "but then we discovered that the knife had been remade, and we realized that it would be _your_ task."

Will could only stare at her disbelievingly. "_My_ task? _I'm_ supposed to just go out there and kill these angels? I don't even know where they are!"

"This knife will guide you. All you need to do is wield it."

Will felt like crying. Hadn't he done enough? Hadn't he killed enough, for them, for their cause?

"Listen," he said desperately, "I'm fourteen years old. I'm supposed to start high school next month. I can't do this, I can't kill anymore, it's not worth it."

"You think not? You would rather see your world ruled by intolerance and cruelty? It is your responsibility. You have the knife."

Will fell to his knees beside the bed and snatched the leather sheath from its hiding place. "I don't want it!" he said. "_I don't want it_, do you understand? You take it, you take it and _you_ use it." He thrust the sheath toward her, but she made no move to take it from him.

"You are the bearer," she said simply.

Will's gaze dropped to his left hand, hanging by his side. The little finger and the ring finger, gone, severed in the fight with the red-headed young man, Tulio, at the top of the Torre degli Angeli. The mark of the bearer. He lowered the hand holding the sheath.

"Why are there angels on the hilt?" he asked.

"It was made by the Guild of the Torre degli Angeli."

"Yes, but that's not an answer. Why were they called that?"

Xaphania hesitated. "The knife––there was a prophecy about it at its birth. It was a strange prophecy, but then it was an age of strange prophecy." She paused, and then recited: "The knife would bring about the end of death or it would destroy all human life. It could kill people and angels, even up to God himself. It would bring about the triumph of the Kingdom of Heaven or the end of it. It would be called subtle one, Æsahættr, destroyer of divine life, and it would travel through many worlds in many times. It would be the downfall of the Guild, their city, and the rest of their world, but it could bring freedom to all. An angel came to the maker of the knife to warn him of this prophecy, and the man went ahead to finish the knife, regardless. That was the Guild, in those days." She paused again. "Of course we thought that the prophecy had been completed. Dust was saved, the Authority destroyed, the knife broken.

"But," she went on, "then we heard something else, something new. The whispers said that Æsahættr had been reborn and would play its part as before in the hand of the bearer. It would destroy people and angels, either save life or destroy it…all in the hand of the bearer. This is the distinction from the original prophecy. _In the hand of the bearer_. We think it means that _you_ are more important, what _you_ do will have a greater effect on the outcome."

Will frowned. "But that's what––what the alethiometer said last time. It said––the knife was so delicately balanced between good and evil––that's what the prophecy said, too, isn't it?––that my thoughts could tip it one way or another."

Xaphania nodded thoughtfully. "Did it say that? The alethiometer itself is a form of prophecy. But you must be careful about what you do, even what you think. It may be a matter of not…losing your humanity, becoming ruthless yourself. And yet you will not be able to succeed without a certain measure of ruthlessness." She watched Will inscrutably for a moment. "It will be difficult."

Will wanted to cry at that, or to laugh, but instead he asked: "Do the prophecies always come true? Where do they come from?"

"They come from Dust. That is how we angels know them. We do not make them ourselves, but our very being is of Dust, and so we…hear whispers of the future, warnings. Sometimes there are places that border closely on the spirit world, our world, and the people there will sometimes hear bits of prophecies. And as I said…the alethiometer is run by Dust as well. As, we suspect, is your knife."

"The knife? But the knife _destroys_ Dust, sends it into the abyss."

"Yes, but remember, it can be used for great good as well. Without the knife, you could not have freed the dead, nor done any of the things you did at all, because there never would have been that window for you to find in the beginning. And now, without the knife you will not be able to stop the angels. It is a fine line. But yes, it is Dust that guides the knife. Not Dust that gives the knife its properties, but Dust that causes the knife to find the next bearer, and Dust that will guide you to cut through to certain worlds."

"So Dust––what _is_ it, exactly? Is it _conscious_?"

"Dust _is_ conscious," replied the angel, "but only in a very specific sense. It is conscious collectively rather than individually. There is no such thing as 'individual' for Dust, although it is remarkably self-aware."

Will nodded. Mary had told him some of this.

"If a great deal of Dust is lost," continued Xaphania, "as nearly happened two years ago through the abyss, then Dust begins to lose its intelligence and things such as the alethiometer and your knife will cease to function properly. If enough Dust is lost, there will be less and less of it to attach to people as they make the transition from childhood into adulthood. And eventually they will be unable to make this transition at all, for it is really Dust that makes it possible."

Will nodded thoughtfully. That made sense. Mary had told him about that too, how Dust had attached itself to the human brain and made it possible for people to grow up. That had been the beginning of the rebel angels to which Xaphania belonged. It had been…revenge, against the Authority.

"I must go," said Xaphania. "Do you have any more questions?"

Yes! Will wanted to say, to yell. But he only asked, "When?"

She knew what he meant at once. "As soon as possible. Now. In the morning."

"I have a family—my mother. What do I tell them? I can't just disappear."

"Tell them the truth."

"They won't let me go."

"After all you've already done? Of course they'll—"

"No, that's exactly why they _won't_ want me to go." He began to pace across the room, frustrated, angry, cornered. "You don't understand, you're not—human. They'll think like I did, they'll say I've done enough, they'll say that someone else can do it. My mother won't care that I'm the bearer."

The angel stared at him for a moment. "You may be right, I don't know. As you have pointed out, I am no longer human."

Will was unsure—had he hurt her feelings? Was it possible to hurt an angel's feelings? Should he apologize?

She continued before he could decide. "But it doesn't matter. It's a human problem; you will solve it, and you will go."

"And you'll destroy the new Specters?"

"Of course." She paused. "You may go where the knife guides you in order to find Metatron's angels, and that must be your priority. You have no time to waste."

Will clenched his jaw resentfully. He knew what she meant.

"Afterwards, however… The knife must be destroyed again, of course, but…perhaps not right away."

He knew what she meant by that as well, and the idea thrilled him in every nerve of his body.

"I do have some understanding of human affairs after all," Xaphania said.

Will knelt by his bed and returned the knife to its hiding place, but it wouldn't be there long. "I'll go in the morning," he said quietly.

"Thank you, Will."

And she raised her wings, there in the middle of his bedroom, and flew out the window. Will didn't want to watch the bird flying away over the rooftops, so he left the window open and, picking up Kirjava and holding her close, climbed back into bed. He thought that he would lie awake for hours, but he fell asleep almost at once. In the morning he would leave a note for his mother and Mary, just as he had when he left for Southampton, but in this note he would tell the truth. By the time they read it, it would be too late for them to stop him.


	7. SUMMARY

As promised, here is the outline of the rest of the fic.

You've already seen that it'll be divided into about three storylines: the main one about Will, plus two supplementary ones, one about Mary and Will's mom and one about Ethan.

I introduced Elemi and his world in the second chapter, and that's the first world Will cuts into. Elemi's family kind of takes him in, and he realizes pretty quickly how screwed up everything is there. He can't really do anything about it right away so he just tries to lay low and gather information, but he makes a few comments that make people nervous, so after a couple days Elemi reports him for heresy. The religious police guys ride off to arrest him or assassinate him or whatever, but luckily Kirjava is wandering around town and sees what's happening, so she and Will escape to another world just in time.

That world happens to be the one I introduced in chapter four, with the City and the Gallivespian Liberation Front. The man I introduced at the end of that chapter, the renegade man living in the forest, his name is Caelis and he fled from the City fifteen years ago because there was an incident with him trying to save a Gallivespian tribe from slaughter. He didn't succeed, but it made him a traitor and so he had to escape. Caelis hates the Authority and basically all religious people, and he's a little crazy and very unstable—this is all very important to the rest of the story.

Will cuts through right outside Caelis's hut and Caelis, being crazy, thinks that Will is some sort of assassin and attacks him. Will is obviously still holding the knife, and so in the process of defending himself he accidentally cuts off the last two fingers of Caelis's left hand. Will is _not _the bearer of the knife for the majority of the story. I was excited about this idea because I haven't seen it done before, not that I've read a ton of HDM fanfiction (at least, not recently—I used to).

Will helps Caelis get himself over to the Gallivespian Liberation Front (GLF) camp so he can get his wound treated, and he fills him in on what it means to be the bearer and what Caelis has to do as far as finding and defeating the renegade angels. Caelis is very gung-ho about this because, as I said, he hates the Authority. Will is tempted to just get him to cut a window back to his world so he can leave the whole job to someone else like he wanted, but he doesn't trust Caelis and decides that he should tag along to help.

Will finds out that the GLF is made up of soldiers from Asriel's rebellion who didn't want to return to their own worlds, so they volunteered to win equality for the Gallivespians instead. He and Caelis stick around in that world for a bit and use the knife to infiltrate the City (not completely sure why—just something the leaders of the GLF asked them to do to help their cause). While there they get caught up in this big coup against the Commissars, who get overthrown because the people are sure they've lost the favor of the Authority and everyone's fed up with their timid attempts to defeat the GLF instead of going for an all-out attack. Will and Caelis run back to warn everyone about the new leadership and tell them to prepare for battle. Will wants to stay and help them fight, but Caelis, being unstable, decides that he wants to go on to the next world. Will, of course, has to follow because the knife is his only way of getting home.

They wander through a few more worlds trying to track down the angels. Things happen, they gradually learn more and more, and eventually they capture one of the angels and he tells them everything: he and his compatriots are trying to carry out Metatron's plans for establishing a permanent Inquisition in every world, and they are led by the angels Shatomi, Mergola, and Bedoran. Caelis, of course, recognizes these as the angels who used to control everything in the City, and Will remembers hearing these names back in Elemi's world, but back then he didn't know that they were important. He guesses that the Inquisition thing might be being led from there.

Interspersed with the Will/Caelis storyline will be the other two storylines, but I don't have those worked out to quite the same detail. I was pretty excited about Ethan though—he becomes the first male witch. Lanselius takes him to meet Serafina and her clan and Serafina knows she's supposed to do something with him, just like Lanselius knew, but she doesn't know what or she's reluctant to accept it, so she goes to Lyra to ask the alethiometer. Will is the main character of this story because I like him best, but I wanted Lyra to be in at least one chapter of it. (There is NO Will/Lyra reunion in case that was holding anyone in suspense.)

I guess I don't know how well Lyra would be able to read the alethiometer at this point, but I'm going to assume she can do it somewhat, it just takes a long time and she has to use the books. So she asks it about Ethan and it tells her that he is to be the first male witch and that he has something very important to do, but either it doesn't give details or she can't read them. And then, in that casual way the alethiometer has, it adds that Ethan is the aeronaut's son. That was one of the first things I decided when I started this story, because Lee was always my favorite character and I wanted to reincarnate him in one of the flashback/interlude chapters, which would be about his meeting Alexandra Herrera, a fellow Texan, when he was in his late 20s and just beginning his balloon career. They had a one-night stand and he never knew about Ethan.

So Ethan does the crossing-the-plane thing, separates from his dæmon and becomes a witch. After that I'm not completely sure what he does for the rest of the story or how he gets to the place he needs to get to in order to…kill Caelis.

What happens is this: Will and Caelis go back to Elemi's world and Caelis goes a little more crazy while Will tries to keep him under control. I'm a little fuzzy on the details here; this was one of the things I was going to work out as I wrote the actual chapter. Long story short, Caelis somehow succeeds in finding and killing Shatomi, Mergola, and Bedoran; Will isn't actually there when this happens because he gets caught up in something involving Elemi—again, not completely sure what. But he escapes from that eventually and goes after Caelis, only to find him running in the opposite direction, covered in blood (because he pretty much killed everyone blocking his way to the angels). Caelis cuts back to his own world and Will of course has to follow (he feels pretty powerless for most of this story, you may be able to gather). Will gets Caelis to tell him basically what happened, so he knows that the angels have been defeated.

But that's not the climax of the story. As I've reiterated several times, Caelis is crazy and he holds a serious grudge and he hates pretty much everyone from his world. Will tells him that he needs to destroy the knife now, but Caelis refuses and tells Will that there's one more thing he has to do. He doesn't want Will to come with him, but Will of course does because now he _really_ doesn't trust Caelis.

Caelis is determined to kill the people who were in charge fifteen years ago who listened to the angels and obeyed the Authority and made the whole world suck and destroyed Caelis's life. So he uses the knife liberally to get back into the City and then into the room where a bunch of the new leaders of the city are meeting. He kills several of them before he gets someone to tell him where they've locked up the former Commissars. But then Caelis and Will get separated somehow and Will ends up getting to the jail first and finding the Commissars Belshiv, Terkin, and Mens (the other three died in the coup that I didn't go into a lot of detail about, but I do know the details). Again I'm going to skim over the details here because this is getting long—Will makes a deal with Belshiv, Mens does evil things before Belshiv kills him, and Terkin commits ritual suicide or something like it. Will and Belshiv together try to take out Caelis, but he cuts a window and gets away. And I know you must be tired of hearing this, but Will follows him.

He cuts into Lyra's world, where Ethan is waiting nearby. He somehow found out where to be (a prophecy the witches overheard, I think it was) and that he's supposed to stop a very dangerous man, and it's pretty obvious that Caelis must be him (since he's a crazy-looking tattered-clothes-wearing man covered in blood and carrying a knife who appeared out of nowhere). They fight, Ethan kills Caelis, and…becomes the final bearer of the subtle knife!

Will takes Ethan back into the Gallivespian world briefly in order to wrap things up there. Belshiv has gotten things under control and is talking to the new leaders of the City, trying to work out a different leadership system. Part of his deal with Will was that they'd stop persecuting the Gallivespians, but it's obviously going to take a long time to get people to accept that. Will has an idea how to be quicker about it, but he needs to talk to Xaphania and he doesn't know how to find her.

He and Ethan return to Ethan's world, which is also Lyra's world. Will goes through an intense personal struggle over whether to go to Oxford, but he ultimately decides not to because he knows he wouldn't be able to leave again. So Ethan cuts a window back into Will's world, then destroys the knife. Will goes home.

While all this was going on, Mary Malone and Elaine Parry were also fighting the angels in their own world by creating an underground pseudo-religion philosophy. I was kind of hoping I'd figure out a way to connect this storyline to the main one as I wrote it, but if I couldn't I would have de-emphasized it a lot and only given it two or three short sections as parts of longer chapters.

To wrap everything up: In the final scene, Xaphania comes to see Will again as he'd hoped she would. Will wants her to send more angels to Caelis's world and get them to put everything right; she refuses on the grounds that soon angels will no longer be able to travel between worlds and people need to figure things out for themselves. But then Will makes this whole impassioned speech and she finally agrees. Will and Xaphania talk about the nature of Dust for a while, and then the last line is about building the Republic of Heaven.

Oh, right – I forgot about the interlude chapters. In addition to the one about Lee and Ethan's mom, I was going to write about: one of the soldiers from the Second Rebellion who decides to go to the Gallivespian world instead of his own; how Balthamos and Baruch infiltrated the Clouded Mountain and learned about the Inquisition plans; and…that's all I definitely decided on, but I had a few other possibilities.

There you have it. I didn't think the summary would be so long, sorry about that… I hope you're all suitably impressed with the level of planning I put into this story because I _never_ put this much planning into a story (even, like, a real non-fanfiction one). It would be nice to actually write this some day, but I won't hold my breath.

Feel free to tell me what you think, or ask for any further details because I probably know them (unless, of course, I specified that I do not in fact know them). Thanks for reading, everyone, and thanks for favoriting or especially reviewing!


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